u never
experienced a sensation of this kind,--a species of inward prompting to
pursue a road, to penetrate into a pass, or to explore a way, without
exactly knowing why or wherefore?'

This question, vague enough as it seemed, led me to talk about myself
and my own position; a theme which, however much I might have shrunk
from introducing, when once opened, I spoke of in all the freedom of old
friendship.

Nothing could be more delicate than the priest's manner during all this
time; nor even when his curiosity was highest did he permit himself to
ask a question or an explanation of any difficulty that occurred; and
while he followed my recital with a degree of interest that was most
flattering, he never ventured on a word or dropped a remark that might
seem to urge me to greater frankness. 'Do you know,' said he, at last,
'why your story has taken such an uncommon hold upon my attention? It
is not from its adventurous character, nor from the stirring and strange
scenes you have passed through; it is because your old pastor and guide,
the Pere Delamoy, was my own dearest friend, my school companion and
playfellow from infancy. We were both students at Louvain together; both
called to the priesthood on the same day. Think, then, of my intense
delight at hearing his dear name once more--ay, and permit me to say it,
hearing from the lips of another the very precepts and maxims that I can
recognise as his own. Ah, yes! _mon cher_ Maurice,' cried he, grasping
my hand in a burst of enthusiasm, 'disguise it how you may, cover it up
under the uniform of a "Bleu," bury it beneath the shako of the soldier
of the Republic, but the head and the heart will turn to the ancient
altars of the Church and the Monarchy. It is not alone that your good
blood suggests this, but all your experience of life goes to prove it.
Think of poor Michel, self-devoted, generous, and noble-hearted; think
of that dear cottage at Kuffstein, where, even in poverty, the dignity
of birth and blood threw a grace and an elegance over daily life; think
of Ettenheim and the glorious prince--the last Conde--and who now sleeps
in his narrow bed in the fosse of Vincennes!'

'How do you mean?' said I eagerly; for up to this time I knew nothing of
his fate.

'Come along with me, and you shall know it all,' said he; and, rising,
he took my arm, and we sauntered along out of the crowded street, till
we reached the Boulevards. He then narrated to me every incident o